Here you are again tapping at the stone in my walls, wondering if there is a hole big enough for your centipedes to fit through.
Here you are again with an innocent smile and happy eyes lying about the tools you used to build me.
Here you are again acting like you didn’t pick at the healing skin and watch the scabs bleed while I screamed.
Here you are again telling me you miss me while I hope you are lying about that too.
Here you are again saying, “I love you.”
Here I am again picking open the wounds that you will always infect with discarded thoughts of what you’ve done.
Here we are in the same circle slicing our flesh apart when we reach the spikes in the walls. I wonder how many times we will turn before we bleed to death?